Run: 2026-09-25-01M3CKFR6Y65G3KCFBZC5W91FX

The knock came just as Rory was wiping grease from her hands onto her jeans. Three sharp raps, then a pause, then two more. A rhythm. A code. Her fingers stilled. Ptolemy lifted his head from the pile of books he’d been using as a pillow, ears twitching. The flat was too quiet, the kind of quiet that hummed in her bones. She hadn’t heard that knock in over a year. Another set of raps, this time faster. Insistent. Rory exhaled through her nose, tossed the rag onto the counter, and moved to the door. The deadbolts were already locked—old habit—but she double-checked them anyway before pulling the door open just enough to see who stood on the other side. Lucien Moreau filled the doorway, his charcoal suit immaculate, not a crease in sight. The hallway light caught the platinum in his hair, the sharp angle of his jaw. His amber eye gleamed, the black one unreadable. He leaned on his cane, but the grip was loose, casual. Like he hadn’t just crossed half of London to get here. “You’re late,” she said. A smirk tugged at his lips. “I’m right on time.” She didn’t step aside. “I wasn’t expecting you.” “No. You weren’t.” His voice was smooth, the kind of smooth that made her teeth ache. He shifted his weight, the cane tapping once against the floor. “Are you going to let me in, or do I have to bribe the cat?” Ptolemy chose that moment to slink between her legs, tail flicking against her ankle. He eyed Lucien with the same suspicion she felt. Rory stepped back, but only because the cat was already weaving around Lucien’s polished shoes. “Don’t let him fool you. He bites.” Lucien stepped inside, the scent of bergamot and something darker—gunpowder, maybe—filling the space between them. He shut the door behind him with a click, then turned to face her. The flat suddenly felt smaller. “You’ve redecorated,” he said, nodding at the stacks of books that had spilled from the shelves onto the floor. “You’ve been gone.” That wiped the smirk from his face. His fingers tightened around the cane. “I had business.” “In Marseille?” “Among other places.” She crossed her arms. “You could’ve called.” “You stopped answering.” The words hung there, sharp as the blade hidden in his cane. She looked away first, her gaze landing on the chipped mug on the counter, the half-eaten plate of takeaway. Evidence of a life he hadn’t been part of. “What do you want, Luc?” He exhaled, a sound like a man bracing himself. “To talk.” “About?” “Us.” The word was a punch to the gut. She turned, putting the counter between them. “There is no *us*.” “There was.” “There was a lot of things.” She grabbed the mug, rinsed it under the tap with more force than necessary. “Then you left.” “I had to.” “You *chose* to.” His jaw clenched. The cane thudded against the floor as he took a step forward. “You think I wanted to? You think I enjoyed walking away?” She set the mug down with a clatter. “I don’t know what you enjoyed. You never told me.” Silence. The kind that pressed against her skin, heavy and suffocating. Ptolemy chose that moment to leap onto the counter, tail swishing between them like a metronome. Lucien’s gaze dropped to the cat, then back to her. “You’re angry.” “No. I’m *indifferent*.” The lie tasted bitter. “Liar.” She flinched. Not at the word, but at the way he said it—soft, almost fond. Like he knew her better than she knew herself. He took another step forward, close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his amber eye, the way his black eye seemed to swallow the light. “You’re still wearing the bracelet.” Her hand went to her wrist without thinking. The silver chain was thin, almost hidden beneath her sleeve. A gift. A mistake. She yanked her cuff down to cover it. “Old habit.” “Or an old hope.” She scoffed. “You’re the one who taught me hope’s a fool’s game.” His expression darkened. “I taught you a lot of things.” “And I taught you a few.” Her voice was low, dangerous. “Like how to walk away.” The air between them crackled. His free hand flexed at his side, like he was fighting the urge to reach for her. “I came back.” “And?” “And I’m not leaving again.” She laughed, but there was no humour in it. “That’s not how this works. You don’t get to waltz in here after a year and declare that like it’s a promise.” “It’s not a declaration. It’s a fact.” “Facts don’t change the past.” “No.” His voice was rough. “But they can change the future.” She wanted to hit him. Wanted to kiss him. Wanted to scream. Instead, she grabbed the plate from the counter and scraped the leftover food into the bin. The clatter of the fork against the ceramic was too loud. “You’re delusional.” “And you’re stubborn.” “Says the man who just showed up unannounced after twelve months of radio silence.” He was quiet for a long moment. Then, “I was in Avaros.” The words hit her like a physical blow. Avaros. The demon realm. His father’s domain. She turned slowly, her back pressing against the counter. “You went *home*?” His nod was barely perceptible. “I had to settle things.” “And did you?” “Enough.” She pushed off the counter, her pulse hammering in her throat. “What the hell does that mean?” “It means I’m not running anymore.” “You were never running. You were *hiding*.” His cane hit the floor hard enough to make Ptolemy bolt. “And you were never honest about why it hurt so much when I did.” The truth of it burned. She opened her mouth, then shut it. The flat was too warm, the walls too close. She needed air. Needed space. Needed *him* to stop looking at her like he could see straight through her. She turned towards the window, yanked it open. The sounds of Brick Lane—distant laughter, the hum of traffic, the clink of glasses from the pub below—flooded in. She gripped the sill, her knuckles white. Behind her, his footsteps were silent. She didn’t turn, but she felt him stop just short of touching her. His breath was warm against the back of her neck. “Tell me to leave,” he murmured. She closed her eyes. The scar on her wrist throbbed, old pain flaring to life. “I should.” “But you won’t.” Her fingers dug into the wood. “No. I won’t.” A beat. Then his hand was on her shoulder, turning her gently. She let him. His touch was familiar, electric. His thumb brushed the crescent scar on her wrist, the one she’d had since she was a child. The one he’d kissed a hundred times. “Why now, Luc?” His other hand cupped her face, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. “Because I couldn’t stay away anymore.” She wanted to pull away. Wanted to lean in. Wanted to pretend this didn’t matter. But the look in his eyes—raw, desperate—shattered the last of her resolve. “You broke my trust,” she whispered. “I know.” His voice was rough. “Let me earn it back.” Her breath hitched. The old wounds ached, but beneath them, something else stirred. Something dangerous. Something hopeful. She didn’t answer. Not with words. Instead, she reached up, her fingers curling into the lapels of his suit, and pulled him down until their lips met. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet. It was a collision, a reckoning, a year’s worth of anger and longing poured into a single, searing kiss. He responded like a man starved, his cane clattering to the floor as his arms wrapped around her, pulling her flush against him. The kiss deepened, desperate and hungry, and for the first time in a year, she felt *whole*. When they finally broke apart, his forehead rested against hers, his breathing ragged. “Was that a yes?” She exhaled, her lips still tingling. “That was a *maybe*.” A slow, triumphant smile spread across his face. “I’ll take it.” Ptolemy chose that moment to leap onto the windowsill between them, tail flicking in disapproval. Lucien chuckled, low and warm. “Even the cat’s jealous.” Rory rolled her eyes, but she didn’t pull away. “He’s just smart enough to know trouble when he sees it.” Lucien’s grin turned wicked. “Then he’s in good company.”